they might be sitting up there on november 27th of every year and think, oh, lord, not this again. i mean, it's hard for me to imagine that this would be the day that george moscone and harvey milk would want to remember each and every year. don't get me wrong. i'm deeply touched that people remember my father and i do speak for my family in this regard. we are always and every day grateful that we live in a city that does not forget. but there's just something wrong in this notion that the day we remember our lost leaders is the most violent day of their lives, which in the case of my family was the most violent day of ours. it's almost as if we're giving the senselessness of these deaths way too much respect by centering our love and passion and memory and yearning on the day the beating hearts of these two men, hearts that were so brave, so unflinching, so immensely loving so full of life that they seemed larger than life, the day those beating hearts stopped forever. because, let's get this straight, george and harvey did not die noblely. there was no opera music. there was not